


I lost myself in this maze (yes, it haunts me)

by nxttime



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dick is pretty absent in the fic, Gen, Human Trafficking, Jason Todd and Tim Drake centric, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Jason hates the world, Kidnapping, No Romance, No Slash, Tim Drake is Robin, aaaaaah, clkbfsd, like heavily, my last two braincells left
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-06-27 09:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19788412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nxttime/pseuds/nxttime
Summary: Jason was the one who discovered Dick was missing, anddamn himDick just threw all of Jason’s careful planning out the fucking window.He hadn’t figured it out because Dick had missed a meet up, or because Dick wasn’t answering any imaginary calls, or because he was in Blüdhaven and hadn’t seen Nightwing around.Nah, he’d figured it out because—for whatever reason Jason couldn’t even begin to fathom—he’d gotten an e-mail from the Iceberg Lounge, inviting the Red Hood as a guest of honor.Ane-mail.__“A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for a time of adversity.” – Proverbs 17:17





	1. first you see it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WithTheKeyIsKing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithTheKeyIsKing/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty guys, so a few things you should know. This takes place in Under the Red Hood timeline, Jason hasn't outed himself to anyone, hasn't attacked Tim, hasn't attacked Bruce, or Dick, and he's actually in the middle of preparing for all of that when this happens, so. Lazarus Pit isn't exactly heavily influencing him either, it's more making strong suggestions via spontaneous impulses. Jason was Tim's idol and that hasn't changed, at all. Jason is still has very strong feelings about the new Robin, but they kinda go on the backburner.
> 
> That done, I love you Q and hope you enjoy this. You've been an awesome influence in my writing and a great friend to me, and this isn't nearly enough to express just how grateful I am to know you, and just how much I value our friendship :)

Jason was the one who discovered Dick was missing, and _damn him_ Dick just threw all of Jason’s careful planning out the fucking window.

He hadn’t figured it out because Dick had missed a meet up, or because Dick wasn’t answering any imaginary calls, or because he was in Blüdhaven and hadn’t seen Nightwing around.

Nah, he’d figured it out because—for whatever reason Jason couldn’t even _begin_ to fathom—he’d gotten an e-mail from the Iceberg Lounge, inviting the Red Hood as a guest of honor.

An _e-mail._

It was ridiculous the amount of time he’d sat there, staring at the screen and debating on showing up or not. He wasn’t one to make decisions lightly, and there was a lot to consider in the invite. If Jason showed up, he’d be intermingling with the heart of Gotham’s criminal dealings; he’d have quite the chance at assessing high-level threats and the ones there wasn’t much to worry about.

On the _other_ hand, was going really worth it? The Iceberg Lounge was a high-class establishment. Jason hated dressing like he had people to impress, and he would definitely need to impress the crowd that hung around the Lounge.

He’d decided there were several ways to impress people, and as a result was sitting at the bar of the Lounge in his uniform, helmet resting in his lap and domino ever-present to conceal his identity. Jason was pointedly ignoring the stares he could feel on his back and the whispers of his name he kept hearing, _very_ patiently waiting for Oswald to show up and explain just _what_ the fuck he was doing that warranted an invitation to Red Hood.

Being drunk wasn’t ideal, so Jason didn’t touch the glass he’d been handed five minutes into his wait, instead cataloguing criminals he could identify as targets and possible competition, picking out the worst of the riff raff and the easy ones to crush.

Eighteen minutes into the wait, Jason stood up and picked his way around the Lounge, a few onlookers stepping aside when they noticed his approach, and others sneering or turning their noses up a little at him. Jason spoke to persons of interest and people he was already planning on erasing from the world, warning both parties subtly and being a little sterner with the weak ones. He wanted to avoid spending resources on such petty and unimportant matters, so fear was his solution.

By the time a built guy in a tuxedo Jason had labeled a guard-slash-escort approached him with a, “If you’ll follow me, Mr. Hood,” Jason had half the guys he’d spoken to pissing their pants, and was finished with that step in his plans.

For him not to laugh in the guy’s face took an incredible amount of willpower, so Jason was very proud of himself for not commenting as he threw a peace sign over his shoulder and walked with Mr. Shades Indoors to Look Cool.

Mr. Shady for short.

“I’m a busy man,” Jason said, once they were in a hidden elevator, arms crossed as he stared up at the lights in boredom. He wasn’t really lying, as in, _at all._ These days Jason had quite a bit on his plate. “Cobblepot better have something worth my time.”

Mr. Shady nodded once. “We understand M—”

“Call me ‘Mister Hood’ one more time and you’ll find your kneecaps missing.” The kids of the Alley called him Mister Hood, and only they could. He needed to remember to get them to call him Red or something the next time he saw them.

Mr. Shady swallowed nervously, and Jason cracked a smirk as he lifted the helmet over his head and put it on.

Mr. Shady continued. “We understand, _sir,_ and rest assured; what Mr. Cobblepot has to offer will definitely interest you.”

Jason turned his head to face Mr. Shady and raised a brow, which Shady couldn’t see, and drawled, “An’, if I may ask, just _how_ do _you_ know what _I_ would be interested in?”

He didn’t get a response as the elevator doors parted and Shady gestured him forward.

Rolling his eyes, Jason walked out of the elevator and again let himself be led by Shady, who was wiping his palms on his pants. He didn’t have to memorize the path they were taking since it was just a straight line to a door and therefore didn’t even consider bothering to.

Ah, simplicity.

Shady unlocked the door with a keycard—really, Oswald? Keycards?—and held it open for Jason, who growled in irritation. He could open a goddamn door for himself, thanks.

Regardless of his irritation, he stalked through the doorway and entered a large room. It reminded Jason of a prison courtyard, with seats all suspended above and around a cage in the center of the room, many of the seats already occupied by familiar faces that Jason did _not_ like seeing.

Shady led him to his seat—front-row and with a _very_ good view of the cage—and was quick to leave.

Jason scowled at he sat down, propping his feet up on the railing in front of him and crossing his arms. He firmly ignored the fact that Harvey Dent was in the seat to his right, and that _Roman fucking Sionis_ was to _Dent’s_ right.

Only one person was between Jason and the man he’d been harassing. The incredibly powerful, rich, and no-nonsense man that Jason had shoved nonsense and frustration upon.

Roman seemed busy talking on his phone—business call, if the audio receptors in Jason’s helmet were working correctly—so he hadn’t noticed Jason’s presence (he hoped), and Jason thus forced himself to catalogue the rest of Penguins “esteemed” guests.

Mario and Alberto Falcone, Carmine’s sons if Jason’s intel was on the money (which it was), were sitting with Tony Zucco and Sal Maroni, a seating arrangement Jason was sure was intentional. The Maroni family and the Falcones were notorious rivals.

Hopefully they’d make the evening a little more interesting than it was going to otherwise be.

Aside from them, Two-Face, Roman, and who would appear to be fucking _Jonathan Crane,_ there were no other big names Jason could see, and honestly that Scarecrow had shown up meant that whatever Oswald had was actually _worth_ showing up.

Then he’d seen Edward “Eddie” Skeevers, and things got even _more_ interesting.

Oswald’s little auction was now much more serious, and much more intriguing, and Jason wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be concerned or excited. The inner Robin in him said concerned, but it also said a general _‘what the fuck are you even doing here, you should be kicking their asses and carting them off to Blackgate’,_ so Jason wasn’t sure it had much credibility. The inner Lazarus in him said excited, but it also said to rip everyone’s throats out and display their corpses like trophies, so it also had no high ground.

Jason was met with a conundrum and warring emotions.

“How much longer is Oswald going to keep us waiting,” Dent growled, and Jason hoped he’d been talking to himself because he didn’t react at all.

 _I feel you, Harv,_ Jason thought to himself. He was a patient guy—had done stakeouts that lasted at least eight hours without moving a muscle in any and probably any weather one could imagine—but this was a senseless waste of time. Jason was _extremely_ busy nowadays, and even if Cobblepot hadn’t cared about _his_ agenda he would have taken Eddie Skeevers’, Black Mask’s, Two-Face’s, _and_ Scarecrow’s into consideration.

So if he was trying to get himself killed, he was doing a spectacular job of it.

And Jason would know.

Harvey glowered at the fenced in cage and leaned forward, muttering, “I give ‘em _three minutes,_ then I’m leaving.”

Then plotting murder, Jason’d bet.

Luckily enough, Penguin chose then to make his appearance on the stand beside the cage, waving his cane at some guards who disappeared behind double doors hidden in the walls around the circular area around the cage, then looking up at his invited guests and smiling hideously.

God, that guy was ugly.

“Cobblepot,” Eddie said, the first to speak up. “This had better be worth my time.”

“Yeah!” Harvey yelled, and Jason mentally spat curses at his volume. _No need to fucking yell, jackass._ “I’ve been sittin’ here for too long for this to be somethin’ dumb.” _Thank you for lowering your voice._

Roman hung up on his call, and Jason felt his shoulders stiffen, but he didn’t dare move. He kept his gaze on Cobblepot.

Penguin raised his hands placatingly, and said in that disgusting voice of his, “Calm, friends. Believe me when I say that what I have to offer is more than worth your wait.”

“I dunno, Ozzy,” Jason drawled, deciding to risk Black Mask making this whole deal hell and lowering his legs so that he could lean his forearms on his knees. “I’m a picky guy. You’re lucky I even showed up to this freak show.”

Oswald clearly didn’t appreciate Jason’s mouth, but Jason didn’t care. He was who he was, supervillains and mobsters be damned, and he wasn’t gonna change anytime soon. They could kiss his zombie ass.

“I suppose I am,” Cobblepot flatly retorted. “At any rate, the bidding starts at fifty.”

“What the _fuck_ could _you_ possibly have gotten your paws on worth _fifty thousand dollars.”_ Ah Roman, speaking the words on everyone’s mind before they could.

Bastard.

The two guards returned dragging someone between them, then tossed the person in the cage and on the solid concrete ground carelessly, closing and locking the door behind them as they took up their posts beside it.

“You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me,” Jason breathed, immediately on his feet, hands on the railing as he leaned forward to make sure he was _actually_ seeing who he thought he was seeing. “Fucking, _Nightwing?”_

And it was him. The dumbass, too fucking happy, always upright on his feet, irritating piece of shit older brother of Jason’s. He was just lying there, not obviously injured but not stirring at the same time.

Concern and fear reared its traitorous head and sucker-punched Jason in the gut. He felt like he was gonna hurl.

Oswald smiled that disgusting smile of his again.

“The bidding starts at fifty.”

“A hundred,” Jason barked, all his careful planning with his money out the fucking window. _Fucking fuck, Dick, you just had to let yourself get caught._

The Falcones stood at the same time, and Alberto bid, “A hundred fifty!”

_Fuck._

“Two hundred!” And oh-ho, Harvey seemed like he felt compensated.

Jason couldn’t afford to keep bidding, he really, _really fucking couldn’t,_ but God _damn_ Richard John fucking Grayson.

“Two seventy,” he called, forcing his tone lackadaisical and his body language indifferent as he eased back into his seat, crossed his arms, and kicked his feet back up. This situation was more than stressful, and Jason hated Dick Grayson with everything in him, tapping his finger on his bicep to try and relieve some of his anxiety.

“Three hundred,” Roman finally tossed out.

Jason swore a blue streak under his breath.

He tried, “Three eighty,” but was quickly overbid by the Maroni representatives with four hundred.

The price was far too high for Jason to be able to continue bidding. There was nothing he could do but watch as his brother was auctioned off like an animal, nothing he could do but sit and observe.

For the first time since his return from the grave, Jason felt completely and utterly helpless.

And he hated Dick for it.

Jason stayed throughout the duration of the auction, long enough for Eddie to out bid everyone with a price of seven hundred thousand dollars. Nobody was willing to pay that kind of cash but him. Jason _couldn’t afford_ to pay that kind of cash. He just didn’t have enough money to spare—he didn’t have _any_ fucking money to spare.

Oswald jutted his cane at Skeevers and said, “Sold, to the trafficker with deep pockets!”

Everyone gradually trickled out, but Jason was the first to leave, already in the elevator by the time Cobblepot had finished his sentence.

When the doors slid shut and Jason was safely out of view, he slammed his fist into the metal wall, denting it a little, stinging pain racing up his arm as a result of his idiocy. He ignored it and pressed his hands to his face and screamed in frustration.

Not only had Jason just lost Nightwing, he’d lost him to a professional trafficker, importer, and exporter. International, if Jason had his facts memorized correctly.

He couldn’t try to steal Dick away from Eddie, because the guy was a pro. He knew what he was doing. Jason couldn’t steal Dick away from Penguin, because Jason was _not_ prepared at all for a fight of that magnitude, and it would take him at _least_ a full day to get the intel he’d need to take Cobblepot on if he wanted to win.

Dick could be anywhere in the world in under ninety-six hours.

Jason had _under four motherfucking days_ to figure out who Eddie was going to sell him to, what he was going to be transported on, when he would be leaving, and _where_ he was going to go.

The estimated ninety-six hours would start in about three, so Jason had _three_ hours to prepare for all the information gathering he was going to be running himself ragged for over the next forty-eight. That gave him a total of ninety-nine hours to work with.

As he walked out of the Lounge, his brain was flying to scrape together _some_ sort of plan, and Jason mourned the loss of sleep for the foreseeable future.

“Fucking hell, Dick,” Jason muttered, swinging a leg over his motorcycle and starting it before tearing through traffic.

He had a plan he needed to formulate and a dumbass brother to get back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic is outlined and I should be updating regularly! I hope to!
> 
> Until chapter two :D


	2. then you feel it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tim knew something was wrong when he called Dick twice and was sent to voicemail both times. Normally that was fine; Dick was a pretty busy person, so Tim could understand that; he just texted his brother instead, telling him to call when he got the chance, and didn’t give it much more thought until after patrol when he checked his phone and still didn’t have a response._
> 
> _Frowning, Tim turned his phone off and looked over at Bruce. Normally whenever Dick didn’t answer text messages it meant he was either undercover or isolating himself._
> 
> _If this was the first option, Tim would check with Barbara first then let Bruce know just in case he tried contacting Dick and couldn’t reach him. Bruce got overprotective._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is to be updated about every 2 weeks then! Enjoy this chapter and Robin Tim's perspective :D

Tim knew something was wrong when he called Dick _twice_ and was sent to voicemail both times. Normally that was fine; Dick was a pretty busy person, so Tim could understand that; he just texted his brother instead, telling him to call when he got the chance, and didn’t give it much more thought until after patrol when he checked his phone and still didn’t have a response.

Frowning, Tim turned his phone off and looked over at Bruce. Normally whenever Dick didn’t answer text messages it meant he was either undercover or isolating himself.

If this was the first option, Tim would check with Barbara first then let Bruce know just in case he tried contacting Dick and couldn’t reach him. Bruce got overprotective.

If it was the _second_ option, though… There was an entirely different protocol for that between Tim and Dick.

So he texted Babs and went to change out of the Robin uniform, running up the stairs once he was hopping into his shorts to get to the Manor because it was almost four in the morning and he had to get home in case Dad woke up and decided to check up on him, only stopping to say bye to Bruce and Alfred before booking it for the Drake estate.

As he approached the looming mansion, concern continued to roll in Tim’s gut as he thought back to the fact that Dick might need him and he wouldn’t know about it until Barbara answered.

Because something was definitely very wrong. Tim could feel it in his bones, in his blood, in his lungs. The sharp and bitter taste of fear was in the air, and it was unforgiving as it attacked Tim’s psyche worse than the toxin designed to induce it did. Underfoot grass crunched softly; quietly, in contrast to the raging storm and rolling of Tim’s gut caused by anxiety.

Maybe, he wondered as he crawled into his room through the window, Dick was just tired of him. Maybe Dick wasn’t avoiding Bruce, and maybe he wasn’t undercover. Maybe Dick was sick of talking to him, maybe he’d taken advantage of having a brother too much, maybe it was Tim’s fault—

_No._

Tim shook his head, pulling his pajama pants up.

No, Dick wasn’t like that. He was a good and genuine person, and if Tim were annoying him he’d say it. Dick was honest. He was real.

Right before he curled up under his blankets, Tim checked his phone for a text from Barbara.

_Barbara G: Nope._

Tim frowned, turning off his phone.

So Dick wasn’t undercover, then. That meant he was avoiding Bruce. Something was wrong, so Tim was going to have to get Bruce off his case on patrol tomorrow, which meant he was going to have a long night.

* * *

_“You’re planning on doing what?”_

Predictably, the whole ‘ditching Bruce’ plan wasn’t working. Maybe that was because Bruce was real mother-henny even after about a half a year or so of Tim being Robin. He doubted that the hovering would get any better with time, actually.

He paused on the rooftop he was on, shifting a little uncomfortably as he did, Tim answered, “Visiting Nightwing.”

_“…and you want to go alone. Through Gotham, and into Blüdhaven, unaccompanied. Am I correct in assuming this?”_

“Yeah, and?” Like hell if Tim was backing down now. He hadn’t when he’d stared Bruce down about a year ago to _blackmail Batman,_ and he wasn’t about to start doing it now.

Robin stood up to Batman. (It was, like, a requirement.)

Bruce grunted.

_“No.”_

“Come again.”

 _“I said no.”_ The tone Bruce was using brokered no room for argument, and Tim tightened his jaw. _“Finish your route then head back.”_

“Ba—”

_“This conversation is over. I’ll see you back home, Robin.”_

_Yeah,_ Tim bitterly thought to himself as he readied himself to continue heading toward Blüd full of bitter spite. _See you back home when I get back._

Just as he fired his grapple, he heard a loud stream of curse words spout off from behind him and Tim whipped around, only for whoever it was that needed their mouth washed out with soap to run right past him and jump off the roof.

Heart jumping to his throat, Tim was ready to jump down after the person to catch them, but he stopped short when he saw the figure—male, Tim could finally make out, and with a red helmet—pull out their own grapple gun and shoot a line with what looked like practiced ease.

Tim didn’t hesitate to follow the red-helmet wearing guy. Normally, whenever someone was running, they either needed help, were trying to get away from Robin or Batman, or were just in a rush.

Odds were, though, since this guy had a red helmet, that he was a bad guy or something. Gotham villains seemed to have a theme of being flashy.

Somewhere in Tim’s mind he remembered the Red Hood—Joker’s ex-alias way back in the day—because of the red helmet. That couldn’t be intentional, could it? Was it?

God, Tim hoped not as he landed on the roof the other guy had and ran after him. The Joker had a history with Robins that Tim wasn’t eager to continue.

…that sounded vaguely insensitive, even in Tim’s brain. He hadn’t even voiced that comment and it still came out wrong.

 _Oh shit_ was the follow-up thought, which was completely warranted because red helmet had stopped at the edge of _this_ roof to face him, and Tim was entirely unprepared for that—bad guys didn’t normally stop and turn around to face the good guys, at least the henchmen didn’t.

“I am _really_ busy right now, Robin,” the guy quickly said, his voice coming out chillingly robotic but distinctly young—maybe early twenties?—even with the modulator, “so I don’t have time for your shit—if Batman’s around, tell _him_ to fuck off too, actually—and I therefore ask you to please jump off the nearest roof and have a great face-punching night and _kindly stop following me, thanks.”_

With that, the guy jumped off the roof onto the neighboring one, leaving Tim with his mouth in a surprised and wholly undignified O.

Did—did that guy just—

_No fucking way._

Now _very_ intrigued, Tim followed Mr. Badass, vaguely wondering if Jason would mind if Tim added this guy as his hero.

“Hey, wait a sec mister!”

A very loud, very long, and very dramatic groan was heard probably from space at Tim’s shout, and he continued to silently gape in marvel and run to catch up.

Bruce would probably disapprove, Tim thought to himself.

…he didn’t really care. Robins hardly ever cared what Batman thought, actually, from what Tim had both experienced and seen.

Despite the overexaggerated noise of frustration, red helmet waited for him clearly anxious as he stood on the roof, arms crossed and looking for all the world like he had somewhere to be.

“What can I help you with and how fast can I do it?” were the first words from his mouth, and Tim’s amazement spiked.

Just who was this guy?

“What’s your rush?” Tim blurted. “What’s your name, too? Why the red helmet? _Who are you?”_

“I have something very time-sensitive I need to get to, my name is Noneya Business—call me Noneya, Business was my father—the red helmet looks cool, and I’m nobody you need to worry about, ‘kay?” Noneya answered, ticking off his responses on his fingers as he said them. “That all?”

Tim absorbed the answers, processed them, and finally said, “Can I help somehow? With your ‘time-sensitive something’?”

It surprised him when Noneya seemed to think about his offer, and it surprised him even more when Noneya said, “…fine, you’re his brother anyways right?”

He didn’t have time to think about that question before Noneya added, “No Batman if I say yes, a’ight? It’s enough with your ass Robin self.”

Noneya’s sudden accent sounded natural—like he’d been hiding it the entire conversation and had given up.

“No Batman if we’re not gonna be doing ‘ny criminal stuff,” Tim promised, letting a bit of his own accent slip into his speech.

A scoff of resignation was as much as he got before Noneya bit out a quick, “Hurry up, kid,” and was running off the roof again.

Tim paused to think about what he was doing. He was about to go off with a stranger to do fuck knows what and had promised to not get Bruce involved if criminal activity was uninvolved.

Growing progressively stressed out, Tim ran after Noneya, and re-thought his life choices as something Noneya’d said flashed back into mind sometime during the pursuit.

_“You’re his brother anyways right?”_

What did he…

Oh, shit.

Tim looked at the person to his right, bulked up with respectable and clear muscle, almost reminding him of Bruce, and suspected he knew how to use those muscles to fight. He couldn’t have meant Dick, could he? But who else could he have meant?

“Where’re we goin’?” he decided to ask, carefully adding a little space between himself and Noneya, ready to reactivate his comm to contact Bruce. If this guy had something to do with Dick’s radio silence…

“Middle ground,” was Noneya's response.

Scowling a little, Tim resigned himself to wait for them to reach this ‘middle ground’ to ask the question burning on the tip of his tongue. _What did you to do Dick?_

It took eight minutes to arrive at the ‘middle ground’ that Tim discovered was an abandoned electronics store.

An entire eight minutes of awkward silence, at least it was awkward on Tim’s side.

Noneya beckoned him to follow, pulling the helmet off, and Tim did, hand hovering over his bo as he did, ready for a fight.

He shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have kept it from Batman, shouldn’t have _followed_ Noneya in the first place— _stupid, stupid, stupid—_ he was gonna get Jason’ed and it was his dumbass fault.

 _Stupid,_ he mentally hissed at himself as the door closed. Utterly brainless! Dumb, thoughtless, moronic, half-witted, empty-headed, dim, daft, _dumb as fuck._

But Noneya didn’t move to attack him, instead flicking some lights on to reveal the electronics store wasn’t an electronics store at all anymore—it was entirely renovated and looked more like either a very small apartment or a very big bedroom.

A cot was tucked into the furthermost corner—with a view of all vantage points, Tim noticed—and there was a pillow and light blanket tossed on it, a microwave rested on a desk across from it with a minifridge right beside _that,_ and a lamp also on the shabby desk. Several monitors were set up on a separate table, nearest to the entrance, and looked to be working on something.

Noneya tossed his helmet on the cot and ran a hand through his hair, back to Tim, and Tim found himself curious as to just who this man was. Maybe if he could get a look at Noneya’s face, he could snap a picture with the domino lenses and run it through databases back in the Batcave to give Noneya an actual name.

“Right, well, we’ve reached the middle ground, Robin,” Noneya sighed, dropping his hand to his hip and turning his head to face Tim. “You can call me Simon.”

No way that was Noneya’s real name, but it was a start.

Tim nodded, then couldn’t hold his question back any longer.

“Did you do something to Nightwing?”

Simon snorted, not missing a beat as he tossed himself into the chair in front of the desk with the monitors and started to analyze what was being displayed. “Way to keep a secret, Rob.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Key-clacking was his only response for a few seconds, then Simon hummed and said, “I know.”

Narrowing his eyes, Tim rested his hand on the bo-staff.

Glancing over at the subtle movement, Simon threw his head back and laughed, his hands going to his gut as he did.

“Is that you threatening me?” he continued to laugh. “God, how long have you been at the gig?”

The laughter was surprisingly offensive, and Tim gritted his teeth. “Answer the question.”

“I didn’t do shit to Dick, kid.”

Simon had returned to whatever he’d been doing, attention wholly on the screens displayed before him, and didn’t seem to notice the name he’d dropped.

It made Tim tense.

“What did you just say?” Tim asked, hand tightening around his bo-staff. This guy would be a risk if he knew their identities—Tim took back mentally wanting this guy to be one of his heroes. This was a big issue.

“I _said,”_ Simon repeated in an irritated exhale, “that I didn’t do shit to Dick.” Lower, he muttered, “Why does everyone think _I’m_ the issue?”

He didn’t really think before he was moving, if anyone would believe him (which they probably wouldn’t).

Tim blinked and he was behind Simon—had slammed Simon’s face into the desk, actually, and Simon was swearing a blue streak.

“I—uh, I’m sorry!”

He was panicking. Why was he panicking? He’d trained for this! Tim was Robin, he’d dealt with scarier villains! (No he hadn’t. The worst Batman let him deal with was Riddler, and this guy was much more intimidating than some dude who shoved himself into a purple and green suit)

Simon continued swearing his heart out as he held his nose, but he was doing it in Spanish now, and _wow_ Tim hadn’t ever heard swearing like that before.

 _“Joder—fucking hell, kid,_ that _hurt.”_

Refusing to continue apologizing, Tim tried to play it off and said, “Who’s Dick?”

That surprised a laugh out of Simon.

 _“Puto,_ you basically just spoiled the secret. If I hadn’t known who was behind what mask before, Batman would probably be within whatever fucked up rights he has he has to either ground you or fire you.” Simon eyed him, holding his nose, and asked, “Are you even one of his kids? Damn he replaced the last one quicker than a speedster on drugs, huh?”

Tim…

Had no idea what the fuck he was supposed to say to that.

“Uh…”

Simon rolled his eyes and returned to the monitors.

“To answer your original question, _no hice nada,”_ he said, clicking into different tabs. “Penguin got the drop on your brother. Auctioned him off to Edward Skeevers.”

Tim sucked in a sharp breath at the name, and Simon hummed.

 _“Exactamente._ I’m tryna help y’all get your Dick back,” Simon continued, turning to give Tim a pointed look. “I don’ appreciate the effort you made t’break my nose.”

Still at a loss for words, Tim didn’t think before he was saying, “It didn’t work?”

_Fucking hell, where’s the filter between my brain and my mouth?_

Thankfully, Simon barked a laugh at that and replied, “Not quite. _Casi._ M’nose hurts like a motherfucker.”

“Oh.” Tim sat down on the floor next to Simon and looked up at him, eyeing the shock of white in the guy’s hair. “S’too bad.”

Simon hummed again and it went silent as he worked on the computers and updated some files.

When Tim had collected himself and his thoughts, he made a decision and sat up straighter.

“How can I help?”

Simon raised a brow and glanced over at him.

“Pardon?” he asked.

“How can I help?” Tim repeated, gaze locked on Simon’s own, and he noticed that Simon’s eyes were an unnatural, vivid acidic green.

He knew that shade from somewhere.

“You’re looking for Dick, right?” Tim pressed, scooting a little closer.

Simon frowned.

“…how willing are ya to do some footwork?”

And Tim was in.


End file.
